Bowie Knives & Safety Hammers
by carolinelea
Summary: He'd be following Lucy Preston until his legs gave out. (And maybe even then, he'd crawl.) / Episodic tags between Lucy & Wyatt. Latest from 2x10 - needed a tag between Future!Lucy and Present!Wyatt and then this just...happened.
1. After The Alamo

_This is a fluffy little tag I forgot I wrote a few months ago. It's meant to be a missing scene from immediately after the Time Team returns from the Alamo. I so love this show - I really, really hope it gets renewed! #RenewTimeless_

* * *

"I don't want anybody else. Look, _I – trust – you_. _You_ are the one that I trust. Rufus needs you; I need you. Okay?"

Wyatt yanks one of her hands from his face and turns away, yearning to be free of her need. He hates her a little, in that moment. Hates her desperate, beautiful face; hates the way she's right; hates the way she's pulling him back from a bloody but self-satisfying act of contrition and conclusion and maybe even reunion with all he's lost.

The heartbreak is all over her face when he turns back and he knows he can't leave her. Them. He can't leave his people.

He's still holding her hand when he tells her: "Get ready to run."

* * *

The women's locker room at Mason Industries is quickly becoming what feels like her last safe haven.

Lucy stands in front of the floor-length mirror and stares at an image she thinks should be in black and white in the pages of a history book. A survivor of the Alamo looks back at her, covered in soot and flecks of mud and blood. Sweat from a Texas sun, too hot even in a February of almost two hundred years ago, is rapidly drying on her scalp and neck. Her eyes are huge and wild in her thin face.

She decides she needs to get out of the Alamo survivor's clothes. Her hat is gone – lost somewhere in the past, disintegrated by now – so she pulls the pins out of her hair with shaking fingers and then collapses on the floor to unlace her boots. Soon, she's standing under a hot, steady stream of water in the shower and shuddering in relief. She dresses quickly after the shower. Her clothes are light and flimsy compared to the heavy cotton and muslin from the 1800's, but they help her settle back into herself; they help her breathe again.

She walks out of the locker room to find Wyatt sitting on the ground, back against the wall in the hallway. She nearly trips over him.

"Whoa, there," he teases, and (of course, because he's him) puts a steady hand on her abdomen to keep her from falling over.

"Wyatt! What are you doing?"

"I was waiting for you," he says, and pats the concrete next to him. "Sit."

She frowns, but does as he asks and sits. It's only then that she notices the extremely large knife he's holding and her mouth falls open.

"Oh, my God," she breathes, staring at it. "Is that –"

Wyatt gives a dry chuckle.

"Yup."

"Wow," she says, and gratefully accepts it when he gives it to her to examine. The Bowie knife – almost a sword, really – is unpolished and heavier than she had expected.

"You know, I'm kind of grateful the attack happened sooner than it was supposed to," she comments, still inspecting the knife closely. She doesn't notice Wyatt examining her just as closely.

"Why?"

"Well, John Smith told Sam Houston that Bowie was on his deathbed from some kind of illness when the attack happened – the first time. I guess it was a sudden illness, because he didn't seem sick to me. So he got to go out fighting on two feet. Although," she smiles sadly, "I'm sure he was just as deadly either way. His mother is recorded as saying 'I'll wager there were no wounds found in his back,' after she found out he'd been killed."

Wyatt returns her sad smile.

"I suppose you're going to tell me I've got to take this to the museum in San Antone?"

Lucy's lips twitch and she tips her head to the side.

"Actually, the original Bowie knife has never been found, and I don't think you could ever authenticate the finding of this one, so…no. And he gave it to you." Lucy hands the knife back to him. "Sounds to me like it's yours."

Wyatt nods and puts the knife down on the floor between them. They sit in silence for a long moment and Wyatt takes her by surprise when he grabs her hand. She looks at him, but he keeps his eyes on the ground.

"I owe you an apology."

She relaxes back into her sitting position.

"For?"

He doesn't say anything and she understands. She waits for him to break the silence again, but he doesn't – just continues to hold her hand, not meeting her eyes.

"Agitation and lack of focus," she says in a low voice.

He looks at her now, anxiety written across his brow.

"Hypervigilance. Flashbacks accompanied by dilated pupils and shock. And…thoughts of self-harm or suicide."

He swallows hard and looks back down at the ground.

"You have PTSD," she concludes. "And you only owe me an apology if you let me apologize first."

Wyatt looks up at her in confusion. She squeezes his hand sympathetically.

"I do, too," she tells him. "From, uh…a couple different experiences, but mostly from the car accident I told you about. You know when you helped talk me over the hump? That was me coming out of a flashback. So if you think I owe you an apology for being triggered by my PTSD, then yes, you may apologize."

He opens his mouth, looking offended.

"Of course you don't owe me an apology," he starts, upset, and she smiles wanly and interrupts him.

"Then neither do you."

He looks like he wants to argue, but he ultimately slumps back against the wall and turns his face up to stare at the ceiling.

"You like being right, don't you," he asks rhetorically.

"I do enjoy it, yes," she replies.

"Anyone ever tell you you're kind of a smart ass?"

"Not to my face. Why, did you hear something?"

He finally cracks a smile and shakes his head. They sit in silence again. Just as she's about to bid him goodnight, he seems to remember something.

"Wait here a sec," he tells her as he darts into the men's locker room. She leans against the wall, grateful for the stability, until he comes back holding a small cardboard box held together by Amazon packing tape. He holds it out to her.

She takes it wordlessly. It's already been cut open, so she lifts the lid to find an orange escape hammer – used for cutting through seat belts and breaking through car windows in case of an emergency like a sinking car – sitting inside on a bed of bubble wrap.

"I'm not sure if you have one, but you should keep it in your glove box," he says in a gravelly voice. "Just in case…"

Lucy's eyes fill with tears and she flings her arms around Wyatt's neck. He seems surprised, grunting a little as she collides with him, but he wraps his arms around her in return.

"Thank you," she chokes out, and his embrace tightens.

"Don't mention it," he murmurs.


	2. After the Darlington 500

_Another tag, because I love character development and fluff and Wyatt and Texas. Post 2x02. Hope you enjoy._

* * *

" _Wyatt."_

The harsh whisper jerked him awake before he even realized he'd fallen asleep in one of the chairs that occupied the bunker's common space. He blinked rapidly, recognizing Jiya's clearly anxious face hovering above his own.

"Jiya?"

"Yeah, just me, calm down," she replied, and he only now noticed he had seized one of her wrists, holding a little more tightly than necessary. She must've tried to shake him awake.

"Sorry," he said lowly, and let go. "What is it?"

He sat up straighter as she nodded at a corner of the bunker. He had to blink more sleep out of his eyes before he understood what he was seeing.

Lucy. Lucy was standing there with bare feet, wearing her plaid Walmart-brand pajama pants (courtesy of Agent Christopher) and a gray, too-large army-issue sweat shirt (courtesy of the US government), facing away from them into a blank expanse of grimy wall.

"She's asleep," said Jiya, worried. "She's sleepwalking. I don't know if I should wake her up or –?"

Wyatt stood slowly, making sure to be quiet as he did so.

"I'll get her," he said softly. "Stay here."

Jiya stayed put, watching him approach Lucy with stealthy footfalls. He stopped a few feet away from her when she turned suddenly toward him. Her eyes were closed, her face wet. Moisture dripped down her chin and made dark spatters on the neck of her sweater. Blindly, she extended a hand to him.

"Daddy?" she asked.

Wyatt's breath caught in his throat.

"Why did you lie to me?" Lucy continued, her voice plaintive as a young girl's.

Wyatt swallowed and very carefully held out his arms, hands hovering next to Lucy's shoulders as he stepped forward and let her fingers come into contact with his chest.

She reacted badly, as he'd predicted – flailing in panic as she woke. He grunted softly as one of her wayward hands caught him under the chin, but he held her shoulders securely, keeping her from harm as the last of the dream disappeared.

"Lucy," he said clearly, holding her in place. "Luce. You're okay. You're safe."

Her wide brown eyes were rimmed with red and sleep when they met his.

"Wyatt?"

"That's me," he confirmed with a small smile. She dropped her arms and looked around in confusion.

"How did I end up here?"

"Get hungry for a midnight MRE?" he suggested dryly as awareness came over her face. She sighed and stepped away from him, wiping her face with the palms of her hands.

"God, I used to do this all the time."

"Sleepwalk?"

She nodded and he followed her back to the group of armchairs. Jiya was gone – Wyatt supposed she thought he had things handled and had left him to it. They sat down next to each other on the vinyl loveseat. Lucy curled her feet up under herself, shivering slightly. Wyatt waited for her to collect her thoughts.

"I used to have awful night terrors," she said suddenly. "As a kid."

She stopped, still not looking at him.

"What made them go away?" he asked.

Lucy shrugged one shoulder, and a heavy lock of hair fell across her face. Wyatt's fingers itched to smooth it back, but he didn't.

"When I was thirteen, I nearly broke my neck by falling down the stairs, asleep, so my father…my real father. I mean - my fake one. I guess," she rambled, looking lost. Wyatt nodded and turned slightly to face her, arms folded. The movement brought her out of her reverie.

"Dad started sleeping outside my room, on the floor. He figured he could stop me if I stepped on him while I was sleepwalking."

Wyatt smiled.

"Sounds like you had a good dad."

Lucy rested her temple on one knee, which was drawn up to her chest.

"Yeah, I did."

Wyatt waited for her to continue, but she didn't.

"Want to talk about it?"

She breathed in heavily through her nose, eyes closed.

"I took a sleep aid," she admitted. "You were right – I haven't been sleeping. I didn't want to do something stupid and endanger the team from lack of sleep while we're, y'know…" she sat up straight and gestured helplessly toward the wall hiding the Lifeboat.

Wyatt nodded and scratched his neck thoughtfully.

"And you had a night terror about your dad," he said, and she looked at him sharply.

"How did you know I was dreaming about my dad?"

"Oh, uh…" he hesitated, mentally kicking himself. "You were sleep-talking."

Her cheeks stained slightly pink with embarrassment. Wyatt felt bad for making her uncomfortable, but the light rush of blood under her skin made her look healthier, less sallow. He liked seeing it there.

"Lovely," she muttered sarcastically. "What did I say?"

He tried not to smirk, but he couldn't help it.

"You called me Daddy," he said, trying to lighten the moment.

The flush on her face deepened and flooded down her neck, and her mouth fell slightly open. The tips of her ears were also red, and she covered them with her hands, laughing at herself.

"Well, don't flatter yourself, creep," she told him, and he laughed, too. They sat quietly together for a moment before Lucy continued.

"I was dreaming that he was just in front of me. He was…dead," she added faintly, and Wyatt's stomach knotted. "And I tried to reach for him. I wanted to shake him – I was so angry. I was so angry that he'd lied about being my father. But he just kept…slipping through my fingers."

She stopped and met his eyes.

"So now we know Lunesta gives me zombie Dad sleepwalking episodes," she said, and he could see she wanted to move on from the subject.

"I suggest whiskey," he offered. "I mean, not with sleep medicine. But whiskey by itself does the trick for me."

He grinned and was relieved when she returned the smile.

"I'll take it under advisement."

Their silence was companionable for a long moment before Lucy said in a falsely casual voice, "Y'know, this isn't a very fair conversation."

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Me spilling my guts and you acting all tough," she continued.

"Please. I'm an open book," he replied, sitting back and holding up his hands. She smiled again and tapped her fingers on her chin in exaggerated curiosity.

"Okay…tell me what other languages you speak besides English and German, then."

Wyatt smirked. "Español, claro que si. I wouldn't have been a very successful bootlegger in Texas if I didn't speak Spanish."

"Still not sure I buy that you were a bootlegger, by the way. And?"

He hesitated. "Uh, Pashto. And a little Dari, but I'm definitely not fluent in that one."

Lucy tilted her head, considering.

"Afghanistan?"

"Yeah. And why do you think I'm lying about being a bootlegger?"

"Well, alcohol isn't illegal anymore, for one."

"The stuff I ran was."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Drugs," he said simply, and Lucy's jaw dropped in disbelief.

"You smuggled _drugs_?" she asked.

He grimaced.

"After I'd run off from Odessa for a few months, I ended up in the ghost town outside Big Bend," he said, a lost look coming over his face.

"Ghost town?"

"Terlingua. There was a gang nearby in Lajitas that imported opium and one day, I got caught by a border patrol agent on their payroll. He told me he'd turn me in to CPS unless I ran for them."

Lucy said nothing – just watched him with wide eyes. Wyatt sighed deeply and continued.

"I didn't want to get shipped back to my dad, so I managed to talk myself into thinking I wasn't doing any harm until the asshole tried to make me traffic a twelve year-old girl into Mexico," he said, voice wooden. "She was drugged up – had no idea what was going on. I drove her straight to the nearest detention center and turned myself in."

"Oh, Wyatt," said Lucy, and she put a hand on his arm. He squeezed it absently.

"It's alright. The guy got busted along with a part of the gang after I served as witness. And I ended up with a _lot_ of community service," he added, shrugging.

"Where did you go?

"I ended up in foster care with an old army vet in Fort Stockton after my dad made it clear he didn't want me back. My foster dad – Jerry – he was the one that convinced me to enlist. Well, he and Grandpa Sherwin, but he was gone before I left home."

He smiled at her reassuringly, since she still looked shocked and sad.

"I was fine. Jerry was a grouchy old bastard, but he fed me, gave me a room, and helped me get my GED. And he didn't hit me, so that was a vast improvement."

Wyatt stood up suddenly and walked over to the kitchen area in silence, letting Lucy process everything she had just heard. He turned on the tap and she looked over to see him filling a dented pot and setting it on the stove top to heat.

"Was it the army that sent you to school?"

He nodded.

"Full tuition to UT El Paso while I trained at Fort Bliss. Tea?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. When she nodded, he said, "Looks like your options are mango green and orange blossom, courtesy of Jiya."

"No oolong?"

"Not for you. You're going back to bed."

"Wyatt," she said, her voice disturbingly plaintive, as it had been when she was sleep-talking. He shot her a stern look, but faltered a bit when he saw how defeated and small she looked, standing there in her pajamas.

"You gotta get some sleep, Luce."

"I can't," she pleaded, and her lips trembled.

Wyatt set down the boxes of tea and strode forward, gathering her in his arms.

"Why not?" he murmured into her hair. "What's keeping you up?"

Lucy took a deep shuddering breath and tucked her head under his chin. She was silent for several long moments and Wyatt wondered if she was going to evade the question again.

"Pictures," she finally admitted.

He frowned and put a hand against the back of her head.

"What pictures?"

He felt her swallow hard.

"Pictures of…of you. And Rufus. And Jiya, and Connor, and Denise," she said into his chest.

Wyatt's mind raced, trying to figure out what she meant.

"You were…" she whispered, and he understood.

"They doctored pictures of us, didn't they," he said rhetorically. "To convince you we were really dead."

She nodded and he felt his shirt dampen under her cheek. He took a deep breath and tightened his arms around her as quiet sobs shook her body.

"I didn't believe them, but then they…they…you were," she stammered. "You were dead. Jiya's hair was…burnt off. You…y-your eyes were still –"

"Hey," he interrupted, anger at Carol Preston pumping through his veins as he pulled her away from his body. He placed his hands on both of her cheeks and forced her to look him in the eyes. Furious blue met despairing brown.

"Lucy, they _lied_. Those pictures were _lies_. I'm here. We're all here."

She nodded mutely and put her hands on his, which were still cradling her face.

"I know," she said. "But when I close my eyes, I still see them. I keep expecting to…to wake up. To wake up and find that I'm still there, that you're still dead, that this isn't real, that _this_ is the dream I cooked up for myself –"

He kissed her. Hard. Hard, and long, and irresistibly honest.

"Hate to break it to you, baby doll," he panted against her lips when he finally relinquished her, both of them breathless. "But I'm a teenage runaway criminal – not a dream."

She laughed brokenly, tears still streaming down her face. He wiped them away with calloused thumbs.

"I guess that's true," she said. "A dream wouldn't nearly suffocate me."

He smirked and ran a thumb over her bottom lip, unrepentant.

"I don't hear you complaining," he murmured, wrapping one arm around her lower back, pulling her flush to him. She pressed her mouth against his –

The water on the stove bubbled over in an explosive geyser of steam. Wyatt swore and jumped back, grabbing for the pot and slipping like a cartoon character in the process. The boiling water went flying (thankfully away) across the room. The right side of his ribcage hit the corner of the counter top and he slid painfully to the floor, back against the cabinets, groaning.

"Oh," Lucy gasped, trying not to laugh. "Are you okay?"

He glared up at her in mock-disdain.

"Laughing at a guy while he's down, Professor? Ouch."

She quickly switched the burner off and sat down on the floor next to him, still trying not to laugh. Scowling, he physically pulled her into his lap, ignoring her halfhearted protests.

"There," he said in a low, gravelly voice, as he settled her between his legs. "That's better."

Lucy shook her head, but acquiesced, fitting herself against him. Wyatt kept his arms around her as he spoke softly in her ear.

"It'll take a lot more than a bomb, Luce."

She turned a doubtful eye on him.

"It'll take more than a bomb, a bullet, a shadow organization of spies – hell, it'll take more than several hundred years between us," he murmured. "All that's a cake walk. I'm here for a reason, remember?"

"Wyatt –"

"I'm here to protect you. As long as you need me, I'm here," he said, simply, not letting her protest. She swallowed uncertainly, but found only sincerity in his gaze.

"Okay," she whispered, and he smiled.

* * *

A few hours later, Rufus walked into the kitchen, searching blearily for the coffeemaker.

"Mornin'."

Startled, Rufus nearly dropped the coffee pot. His eyes then found Lucy and Wyatt on the grimy bunker floor: Lucy was sound asleep, lying on Wyatt's plaid flannel, her head pillowed on his lap as he sat back against the cabinets in his undershirt.

"Uh, good morning," Rufus replied, his eyebrows high in surprise. Wyatt nodded at him like nothing was out of the ordinary.

"Make me some of that, wouldja? Long night."

"I see that," said Rufus, as Lucy finally stirred.

"Wyatt?" she muttered, and he passed a hand over her tangled hair.

"It's just Rufus," he told her, and without opening her eyes, she nodded and fell back to sleep.

Rufus, not sure what to say, turned away and got the coffee started. Wyatt seemed to think the situation needed no explanation and continued to stroke Lucy's hair, his head tipped back, eyes closed. Rufus leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.

"This is ridiculous," Rufus said. Wyatt opened his eyes.

"She couldn't sleep," he said.

"Yeah, I get that," said Rufus, a sarcastic edge to his voice. "I mean it's ridiculous that you spent the night with her on this disgusting floor. Your ass must be totally asleep."

Wyatt chuckled.

"True."

"Just switch rooms with Jiya," Rufus continued. "That way she won't have to sneak into our room anymore, and you won't have to sleep out here on that excuse for a couch."

Wyatt puffed out a breath of air. "True. I don't think I'll ever bleach the other night out of my brain."

Rufus grinned and shrugged in non-apology, handing him a cup of coffee. The two men sipped in silence, watching the sleeping woman on the floor.

"She tell you what they did?" Rufus asked quietly. Wyatt grimaced.

"Some."

"She gonna be alright?"

Wyatt clenched his jaw. He didn't answer, and Rufus nodded.

They kept vigil.


	3. After the Kennedy Curse

_Lots of internal Lucy dialogue. Nearly all of it sad. Sorry. Song: The Chain by Ingrid Michaelson._

* * *

 _the sky looks pissed  
_ _the wind talks back  
_ _my bones are shifting in my skin  
_ _and you, my love, are gone_

Wyatt's lips on hers felt like a dream.

He gasped and shifted, his strong hands at her lower back, pulling her in to him, his skin flame-hot against her own.

"Wyatt," she tried to murmur, putting a hand on his chest. The sky was eerily dark and they had to get inside.

He ignored her, his hands sliding just barely under the hem of her blouse, fingers skimming her midriff. Now, it was her turn to gasp.

A bolt of lightning struck nearby, shattering an enormous oak tree as well as her attention.

"Wyatt, let go," she grunted, but still he did not relent.

Something was wrong.

"Wyatt!" she finally shouted, and shoved him away.

He stumbled backward and she finally saw that he wasn't Wyatt at all, but Noah. He grinned like a demon and advanced on her again.

" _Wyatt?_ " she cried, panicked, whipping around in the tornado-like winds, desperately trying to get away from Noah, but he grabbed her roughly by the arm.

And then she was suddenly blinking up at a fuzzy, smiling Jiya.

"Wyatt?" she asked again, and Jiya told her he was on a mission.

"He went without me?" she croaked, but she didn't really listen to the answer. Of course he had gone without her.

She was alone, and the ghost of not-Wyatt's lips on her own felt more like a fever than a dream.

* * *

 _my room feels wrong  
the bed won't fit  
I cannot seem to operate  
_ _and you, my love, are gone_

Lucy had never been a good poker player. She had been an inept liar all her life – a skill in which Amy had always excelled and found her lack thereof hilarious – and wasn't the most attentive observer of body language. Facts written down in books? Those were simple. She soaked them up quickly, able to recall them at the drop of a hat. People were always more difficult.

Except for Wyatt.

Wyatt was easy for her. Her mind seemed to catalog him effortlessly, filing away the various sets of his jaw, the different postures of his shoulders, the emotions in his eyes – all of them were like neon-bright beacons to her.

She once mentioned this to Rufus and had gotten a quizzical look for her trouble.

"Easy to read?" Rufus replied, brow furrowed. "Wyatt?"

"Yeah," said Lucy, suddenly unsure of her assessment. "Don't you think?"

Rufus laughed. "Sure, he's easy to read when he wants you to know he's pissed off. Or when he's not in soldier mode, which is, like, all the time."

Lucy made a non-committal noise in faux agreement and Rufus let the subject drop, thankfully, because her cheeks were starting to burn. Maybe it was just her. Maybe she was just paying too much attention – a weird amount of attention – to Wyatt.

Several months later, however, she knew the truth.

Yes, she definitely paid more attention to Wyatt than she should.

And that ability – coupled with a fiery drive to bring down to Rittenhouse – was one of the only things that convinced her to get out of bed every morning, knowing she would have to face Jessica wearing her husband's clothes in the bunker kitchen as she made coffee for everyone.

She never allowed herself to bring Jessica down, even inwardly, but she couldn't help but carefully file away the way Wyatt said her name when it was just the two of them: softly, delicately, with feeling.

She made note of his awkward attempt at banter as he tried to make conversation about JFK and Marilyn Monroe.

And though she was frustrated at him for bringing Jessica to the bunker, she secretly cherished the expression on his face as he tried to apologize for doing so.

Lucy treasured up all these details in a small, carefully kept box in her heart. She fiercely wanted Wyatt to be happy – after a life of so much sadness, he deserved it. So did Jessica, after all, for putting up with a Wyatt Lucy would have never recognized. She deserved to have the best version of him.

However committed Lucy was to the happiness of the Logan family, though, she couldn't lie to herself. So when it looked like the two of them would head out to find JFK without her - _just the teacher_ \- she put her foot down. And every time she watched him look on Jessica with that glowing expression he used to bestow on her while they were on their manhunt, she returned to the box.

She was human, after all - not a saint.

* * *

 _so glide away on soapy heels  
_ _and promise not to promise anymore  
_ _and if you come around again  
_ _then I will take  
_ _then I will take  
_ _the chain from off the door_

Wyatt was a very physical person, and his friendship had always been marked by touch. Whether he was buckling Lucy in, deliberately stepping into her personal space to straighten her SS uniform tie, pushing her against a wall so he could keep her safe from Flynn's thug entering the room during the Watergate trip, or pulling her towards himself to convince Bonnie and Clyde with his lips and hands that they were a real couple – it seemed like he was always touching her.

And for Lucy, an ascetic, studious person by nature, it was disconcerting. At first. But then she began to notice that his easy way with touch was working its way into her own personality, making her a more physical creature, too, and not just toward him. She threw herself into his and Rufus's arms upon finding them alive in the World's Fair Hotel and again in St. Mihiel; made it a regular practice to place a hand on Jiya's shoulder in comforting support; took Wyatt's arm without hesitation whenever he offered it, and sometimes when he didn't.

And when they slept together in Hollywoodland, she spent hours in blissful mental silence, overwhelmed and enthralled and content to just _feel_ , a phenomenon entirely alien to her.

So it didn't surprise her all that much when her first reaction upon entering John's hospital room was to forcibly push Jessica out of the way. It was what Wyatt would have done, after all, if he wasn't otherwise occupied. And she didn't hesitate to give in to her red-hot surge of rage and protectiveness by picking up the heavy metal tray and swinging it with all the force she could muster with one arm at Emma when she came near Jessica, hoping it would give Wyatt the distraction he needed to retrieve his gun.

It did, but she should've known better, of course. She realized belatedly that she was being more of a hindrance than a help when the edge of Emma's knife was pressed up under her chin.

Lucy coughed and opened her eyes to see Wyatt with his gun leveled at them. He stepped forward uncertainly, shakily shoving the rolling hospital table out of his way.

He looked panicked.

And it scared her.

"Ah, ah," sneered Emma. "I wouldn't, if I were you."

Wyatt stared at her, unmoving.

"Or maybe her life doesn't matter anymore, now that you have your wife back," Emma continued, taking note of this.

Lucy's mind, though numb, still took in everything about him just as it always did. He exhaled sharply, tightening his grip on the gun, and then tried to steel himself.

Fear climbed a few notches up Lucy's spine as he continued to hesitate.

"Do it," she commanded, voice low. He grimaced.

"She's their only pilot," Lucy reminded him, trying not to sound desperate. She paused and waited for him to cock his head to the side and take the shot, just as he had at the Hindenburg when Flynn had used her as a human shield.

But he didn't, and she saw the gun waver in his hands.

"Do it," she urged, now truly terrified.

But then she was being thrown forward into his arms. He caught her and exhaled her name once, twice, three times, so naturally that it seemed like the sound he made when he breathed.

"You alright?" he asked, kneeling down in front of her, and she was halfway through a nod when she realized Emma was getting away.

"Go, go, go!" she told him, and only then, almost as though he was waiting for her permission, did he bolt for the door.

Her brain was still in hyper drive as she followed him down the hall with the guard. He turned his head slightly toward the folder on the wall and she understood his meaning without even seeing his face. The sparks she felt when their hands touched as she slipped him the paper clip were an exhilarating and dreadful confirmation of their shared, unspoken language.

Later, when she was alone in bed, she replayed this sequence of events out in her mind. She breathed deeply, methodically, mentally working her way through her residual fear and guilt – a trick she had taught herself while her mother played ceaseless audio tapes of Rittenhouse propaganda at top volume during her captivity.

 _Breathe in the bad, hold it, let it shudder through, then breathe it out,_ she repeated to herself. _In, hold, out. In, hold, out…_

As she drifted off to a restless sleep, arm still burning dully with pain, her carefully guarded mental box was markedly fuller because of the day's events. Every single second of Wyatt's gentleness, anxiety, and understanding toward her from the last eighteen hours had been thoughtfully catalogued and saved there. She felt slightly guilty, indulging herself in the memory of him breathing her name into her hair as he caught her, but not guilty enough to stop.

If collecting these scraps was all that was left to her of Wyatt, she would hold onto them with both fists. Sure, it hurt, but she wasn't hurting anyone but herself, after all. Wyatt and Jessica could rebuild together while she kept quiet, lingering in her thoughts long enough to dredge up the strength to go on.

* * *

 _I'll never say I'll never love  
_ _but I don't say a lot of things  
_ _and you, my love, are gone_

When they talked outside the bathrooms, Lucy could see that his mental guards were nearly back up to how they were before they talked in that jail cell in New Jersey.

 _That's probably best_ , she thought, trying to convince herself.

"The…the history that you two have between you – it's special. And," she added quietly, swallowing, "you deserve to finally be happy, Wyatt."

It only lasted half a second, but the corners of his mouth turned down, as did his eyebrows. The walls between them seemed to disappear as he sucked in a breath in some combination of surprise and hurt. He stepped forward and Lucy's heart leapt into her throat, convinced he was about to tell her something he really, really shouldn't – something along the lines of, " _You_ made me happy. You _make_ me happy."

She couldn't breathe at the imagining of it, but he seemed to change his mind mid-thought.

"I have no regrets," he said softly instead, his eyes bright like cloudless sky.

She remained frozen.

"Me neither."

And then the walls flew back up between them as he broke eye contact for just a second.

"Well, see ya around the bunker…baby doll," he said.

"See ya around the bunker…shweetheart," she replied, cataloging the way he smiled a little too sadly before she turned and walked quickly away, hiding her tears.

* * *

 _so glide away on soapy heels  
and promise not to promise anymore  
and if you come around again  
then I will take  
then I will take  
then I will take  
the chain from off the door_

Perhaps she ought to label it "Lucy's Box of Masochistic Tendencies," because sitting dejectedly on the couch and watching "It Happened One Night" after her short conversation with Wyatt was definitely self-sabotage.

When Flynn sat down beside her, she couldn't even summon the energy to look at him. She mentally braced herself, expecting a sarcastic comment, but Flynn was silent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him offer her the second bottle. She hesitated for only a second before taking it.

He watched the rest of the film with her quietly, only getting up for a second round for the both of them.

When the movie was over, he stretched and looked down at her, face as unreadable as it always was to her. As everyone's usually was to her.

Except for Wyatt's.

Of course.

"This, too, shall pass," said Flynn in an even tone.

She still didn't look at him as she took in his words. What would pass? Her heartbreak? The way she felt about Wyatt? Rittenhouse?

But before she could work up the will to reply, he left.


	4. After Chinatown

_Hoo boy. I needed a conversation between Future!Lucy and our poor, dumb, broken Present!Wyatt. I jumped in his head and couldn't climb back out until this whole thing had written itself._

 _It's sweet and sad and flawed because it's entirely from sweet, sad, flawed Wyatt's POV. Starts at the very beginning and goes through the very end of S2. Don't read until you've watched Chinatown._

* * *

Wyatt was pretty certain it was his father's fault. As were most things in his life, come to think of it, but he wasn't the wallowing kind.

(Brooding? Yes. Wallowing? He'd never had the luxury.)

After all, when Wayne Logan had threatened his wife with a raised hand, Wyatt, at age five, got between them.

When Wayne Logan took his wife's hard-earned tips from the diner (meant to be their grocery money for the week) and blew it on Lone Star beer and smokes, Wyatt, at age ten, found an old lawnmower at the dump, fixed it up, and started mowing lawns for the rich folks in town.

And when Wayne Logan sat back on his heels, spitting into a dirty Dr Pepper can and jeering at his son, Wyatt, at age thirteen, straightened his spine and repaired the car in the dark.

Nothing could knock Wyatt Logan off-center much or for long. Not his father's abuse, not his mother's depression, not his grandfather's death – nothing.

Even when they pinned a medal to his chest for being a coward, Wyatt kept his head high and lied through all of his psych evaluations, only going to pieces in private.

Even when his wife was murdered, he kept his jaw clenched and his eyes dry at her funeral, consumed with self-hate for his sins. He strong-armed the temptation to mourn ( _you don't have that right, asshole_ , he told himself in a voice that was eerily like his father's) and channeled his grief into other obsessions, like conducting his own search for her killer and playing chicken with death, silently daring it to lay a glove on him as he took assignment after dangerous assignment.

Yeah – far be it from any man to say that Wyatt Logan wasn't rock solid. His foundation was shot up full of holes, sure, but he was entirely self-possessed. He hid his weaknesses where they would never hurt another person but himself, determined to flip the script his father had read him every day of his childhood.

This self-deception kept him steady until the moment he cracked open one eye, then the other, and took in the sight of Lucy Preston inspecting him haughtily from the opposite side of the room.

He felt something within himself slide slightly off-center at the sight of her sitting there, fidgeting with the locket around her neck, and he smirked his best self-assured smirk to try and compensate.

He'd already written his reaction off as a slightly drunken fluke when he swaggered over to her in that Jersey jail cell and informed her lowly that he knew how to get them out. The instant her shoulders were bare, however, he felt it again: a disorienting internal shift that unsteadied him even as he held on to the metal bars.

So unsteady, in fact, that he barely caught the bra she threw at him.

So unsteady, indeed, that when his lips touched the undergarment to tear out the underwire with his teeth, he lost his breath for half a second.

Wyatt's only saving grace was that he was reasonably sure she couldn't see how she was affecting him. He tried to counteract her off-balancing looks and touches and remarks by trying to steady her, himself.

He argued that Christopher give her a moment when she turned up panicked about her sister's disappearance.

He made sure her Lifeboat harness was fastened and tightened properly.

He held her blood-stained hand as she cried over Lincoln.

And when he watched those same hands shake as they held a glass of whiskey in Nazi Germany, he told himself that talking her over the hump was in the best interest of the mission and his own safety. In reality, though, talking her over the hump didn't include stepping into her personal space and straightening her tie.

He'd never do that for one of his men, after all.

At the end of every day, however, Wyatt Logan felt like he was holding up moderately well around the dizzying phenomenon that was Lucy Preston.

That is, he was until they went to the Alamo.

Wyatt had only been there once before as a child on a school trip, but even with that limited exposure, the scrubby Texas brush and the haggard, anxious faces of the soldiers were familiar enough to drag out his carefully hidden weaknesses into the San Antonio sun.

His father's voice echoed in his brain, making him lash out at his team.

His brothers' bodies littered the ground, making him fear for his sanity.

And when he turned away from Bowie to see Lucy sitting guiltily behind him, ripping cloth into bandages, the shift her worried, warm gaze caused in his chest was seismic.

He felt like an exposed nerve – raw and painful – and when he dragged Lucy into his side, barely keeping her from being struck by a stray Mexican bullet, he couldn't take it any longer.

"I'm not goin'," he told her, feeling the holes in his foundation finally cracking, creating spidery, irreparable fissures.

"What?" she gasped. "No! What do you mean?"

"You don't need me," he said. He couldn't properly draw breath. "They're gettin' rid of me anyway, right?"

"You can't stay here; everybody dies," Lucy ground out.

"Look, I know," he interrupted. He met her eyes and gave her the first excuse he could think up: "I can't leave good men like this. Not again."

He stood, took aim, and pulled the trigger. Hoped she'd be gone by the time he ducked back down behind the wagon.

"No," she said. " _No_ , Wyatt."

"What difference does it make?" he asked, the barest tinge of a bitter smile on his face. "Jessica, everyone I care about is gone. Let me do one good thing. Let me buy you the time to get out."

She was already shaking her head, eyes full of tears, and as he turned away to take another shot, she seized his arm and hauled him back toward her.

"What about us?" she demanded. "We're counting on you."

"The next guy's gonna handle it," he began, but she cut him off.

"I don't want anybody else."

And then she put her hands on his face, holding him steady as his foundation continued to crumble.

"I – trust – you. _You_ are the one that I trust. Rufus needs you; I need you. Okay?"

It was the first time, he realized, that she had deliberately touched him, and for some reason, he was furious. Furious and addicted, because though the sight and feel of her made his axis tilt, her touch on him settled and steadied him in a way he'd never felt before.

Wyatt Logan was irrationally and hopelessly addicted to Lucy Preston, and he was furious about it.

The anger wasn't directed at her. He was angry with himself; confused as to why he'd allowed her to have this effect.

But maybe it wasn't really a choice, he thought, as she thanked him and disappeared into the Alamo's aqueduct. He could tell her quiet "thank you" meant more than just thanking him for convincing John Smith to deliver her letter to Houston, but he wondered if she realized that it wasn't just out of this doomed Spanish mission he meant to follow her.

"I can't leave my people," said Bowie.

"I can't leave mine," Wyatt replied.

He'd be following Lucy Preston until his legs gave out.

(And maybe even then, he'd crawl.)

* * *

Lucy wasn't perfect and Wyatt wasn't blind. She was secretive and bossy and occasionally a little cold, and in some of those instances, he got so mad at her he could spit.

Still, those moments were the exception rather than the rule, and he tried his best to hide the moments he felt the studs of his foundation giving way. Pulling her gently by the neck toward himself in the Barrow Gang's hidden cabin and pressing his lips to hers made the room spin. Her fingertips trailing down his cheek as they pulled away from each other pinned him to the floor.

When that bastard Rittenhouse told his men to take Lucy to his bedchamber, a sick purr in his voice, Wyatt honestly had no idea what to do. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and an acute panic made his racing mind gray out as she was dragged toward the door, her face desperate.

He had never thanked God as sincerely as he did when Rufus's musket provided the distraction he needed to break free.

The emotion was cut off abruptly, however, when he heard her voice call out for him in the dark Revolutionary forest. The panic came back full-force and only grew until he managed to function on some higher, half-assed plane of recklessness. It was only when H.H. Holmes lay dead at his feet that he realized it.

Lucy was a roller coaster of steep inclines and sharp, stomach-in-your-throat drops.

Lucy was an earthquake with relentless, rolling aftershocks.

Lucy was someone and something he now almost inherently needed, but his guilt over Jessica hung over her like the sword of Damocles.

When he knocked on her mother's front door in the middle of the night and she appeared, hair messy, feet bare, robe half-hanging off her shoulder, he had to briefly touch the doorframe to steady himself. And when she began to cry into her hands as she sat on the stairs, he nearly changed his mind.

But he didn't, because he was an obsessed, stubborn son of a bitch.

Lucy didn't seem to notice – or, if she did, she didn't seem to care – when he returned, bowed with shame. She threw herself into his arms, whispering consolation into his ear. Wyatt held her tightly, closing his eyes and acknowledging afresh whatever entity was bestowing this undeserved comfort and massive responsibility on his shoulders.

"How can you be so calm right now?" she appealed, and the answer was out of his mouth before he had even formed the complete thought.

(She had a way of doing that to him.)

"Because I've been through a lot in the last couple of days…and I've fought it for a long time. You can call it fate, or God, or the Force," he tried to joke, but if it actually was the Force, it wouldn't surprise him – nothing really surprised him after time travel. "But I am meant to do something. I am meant to protect the both of you."

He looked to Rufus, whom he now considered his brother, before his gaze was irrevocably drawn back to Lucy.

"I see that now," he said. "And I will."

(He had no idea when he said it that it was a lie.)

She looked back at him in quiet incredulity.

"You realize you sound like a crazy person, right?" she deadpanned. He let out a dry chuckle.

"I sound like you," he pointed out.

"Exactly," she replied, and the last of his derelict foundation crumbled away, replaced by the faith and devotion plain in her beautiful face.

He missed that old foundation. Desperately. It hadn't been perfect, but it had held him up solidly enough through every high and low of life until now. And it was better than facing the possibility of losing her to whatever obstacle they next came upon.

Wyatt thought she might be cottoning on to his charade when he told her he couldn't lose her to Flynn in 1954. There was a certain tremor in his voice when he said so. She still sent him away, but he could swear he saw awareness flicker in her warm eyes as he obeyed.

When all was said and done and he was staring down the reality of his bunk and friends and future at Pendleton, however, he knew he'd been made.

"Hey," she said softly, facing him. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

He nodded and swallowed.

"Ah, we'll stay in touch," he said, grasping for lightheartedness. "I'll call ya if I ever need a bossy know-it-all."

"Yeah, I was thinking about texting you the next time I need a reckless hothead," she retorted gently, and he smiled.

"Sounds good."

She grinned a little shyly and they stared at one another.

 _I can do this_ , he tried convincing himself. _I can let this go_.

But then she was in his arms, her cheek pressed into the crook of his neck, and his breath was gone.

 _I can't. I can't._

"Y'know, maybe, uh…maybe Pendleton can wait a little bit," he fibbed as she pulled away. A smirk started to bloom on her face and he liked it so much that he found he didn't even really care she knew he was lying.

"You think I'm gonna miss the chance to help you get your sister? See what all this fuss is about?

Her face fell a little.

"I'm really sorry that you won't be able to get Jessica back."

He took a deep breath. Nodded.

"Maybe we do need to stop trying to fix the past," he admitted. "Start lookin' at the present."

He paused and the unguarded honesty in her eyes bolstered him.

"Maybe I do need to be open to possibilities."

"Possibilities of what?" she asked, but he smiled because now he wasn't the one who was lying.

"I don't know," he said simply. _I've got a couple ideas, though._ "I just know I'm not really ready to say goodbye yet."

And he wasn't. He wasn't ready to say goodbye, and he wasn't prepared to lose her for six weeks.

But he did, anyway.

* * *

The process of collecting the scraps of his old foundation and cobbling them back together in her absence was second only to the pain he'd felt when he lost Jessica. He had to, though, because without her there to keep him stable, he was a mess.

Wyatt knew he was being a miserable, unreasonable asshole to everyone in the bunker (and to the bunker itself, actually, as he punched walls and randomly threw inanimate objects across the room), but he couldn't help himself.

He was off like a gunshot the instant they learned about Rittenhouse's presence in Saint Mihiel and then also once they arrived on the front, almost to the point of risking Rufus's safety as he struggled to keep up.

Reckless hothead, indeed.

He was 95% certain he saw her lithe form and head of dark curls disappear into a canvas tent fifty yards at his nine o'clock, but he was still cautious when he peeked inside.

It was worse than the Alamo. The sight of her delicate features, which were calm and carefully blank with what he thought must be a defense against fear, made him feel like he was careening sideways off of his pitiful, make-do foundation. He was dazed with relief as he stepped toward her and clapped an urgent hand on her shoulder before she could leave.

She reacted and whirled on him with a move he had taught her to use when wielding a knife. Luckily, she didn't have one now.

She froze. He struggled to breathe.

"You're alive?" she breathed, and then he could, too.

"You're alive," he responded, and she giggled a little hysterically, throwing herself at him like she always did. He was prepared for it, though, and barely resisted the temptation to bury his face into her shoulder before she grabbed Rufus and pulled him into her embrace, too.

He was still a little giddy with relief when she suddenly said: "You have to go."

"What?" he said dumbly.

"My mother is leaving soon."

"Your mother?" asked Rufus.

"She's one of them," Lucy hissed.

"S-so your mother's Rittenhouse?"

"Don't have time to explain right now; I have to get back to them," she said, turning away. He seized her by the arm.

"Wait," he grunted. "Get back to what?"

"They're trying to save a soldier which means I have to kill him, I guess?" she babbled.

"With that?" said Rufus, pointing at the grenade. Lucy looked down at her own hand like she was surprised to see the bomb there.

"No, this is for the Mothership," she rushed on, waving it in front of his face. The beginning of a terrible thought bloomed in the back of his mind. "Which you guys can take care of now."

Wyatt took the grenade. The awful, unnamable thought grew bigger.

"Okay, it's about three miles from here, near an abandoned farmhouse up the road, okay?" she explained with her hands, repeating herself.

"Wait, hold on, let me get this straight," said Rufus. "You were gonna kill a soldier and blow up the Mothership?"

Lucy sighed sharply, disconsolately.

"I thought you were dead," she said simply, and the whole of the thought took form and spilled out of Wyatt's mouth.

"How were you gonna get home?" he asked rhetorically, fear in his voice.

She swallowed.

"I wasn't."

When she left the tent, it felt like his guts followed her.

* * *

He could barely believe she was sitting on the cot across from him, hours later. When she broke down in his arms, he made her a second false promise.

"You haven't lost me," he intoned as she curled into him.

But she would. A mere day after the most passionate, blissful night of his life (including his honeymoon, but no one need know that except himself), he was staring into the hard, exasperated eyes of his dead wife.

Wyatt ignored Lucy's calls seventeen times before answering, and when he did, he could hear her tears even though they were silent.

That was the day he began breaking his promises.

Lucy came back from Salem with two deep wounds – one physical, one emotional – and Flynn at her side. She lingered in a feverish delirium and he lingered at the door of her room, torn.

Because he loved his wife. He would always love Jessica, even though she wasn't quite the same. She flinched infinitesimally when he called her 'Jess.' She drew slightly away from him when he held her at night. Her smiles didn't always reach her eyes, which seemed a little more flint-like than he remembered, but he couldn't tell if that was because he had viewed the memories he had of her with rose-colored glasses for so long or if –

No. He couldn't think that way. This was his wife, for God's sake. She was probably acting like that because she was still learning to trust the man he was rather than the drunk she had known for the past six years.

As he slowly tried to withdraw from Lucy and pour himself back into his marriage, he started inadvertently shooting holes in the once-healthy bedrock of her doing. The sick thing was that though it was his own foundation, that foundation now existed in another person, so his self-inflicted wounds weren't just his any longer.

The first wound had been his wordless abandonment. The others followed like dominoes in a cascade of damage: the knife to her arm, the infection and fever, the casual belittling of Jessica's doing that he allowed, unchallenged, and then the nick made by Emma's knife in Lucy's neck.

He had thought he'd been doing an okay job of tying himself back to his wife, but the moment Emma had Lucy in her hold, it was like another earthquake. He nearly stumbled, shoving the hospital tray out of the way as the blade bit into her smooth skin.

Lucy saw his failure and was rightfully terrified. Emma could've killed her, and it would've been his fault because he was too scared to take the shot.

He sought solace in Jessica's bed, and the sixth wound was Lucy's face as she brushed past him in the morning to use the bathroom.

 _Maybe I'm just like Dad. I'm just someone who hurts everyone around me no matter how hard I try,_ he thought morosely the morning after she returned from Depression-era San Antonio. _Maybe this is just my baseline._

And then he saw Lucy walk out of Flynn's room and his vision went red.

"Stay the hell away from her," he growled at the man later, not making eye contact.

"Oh, you mean…Lucy?"

 _Goddamn this asshole._

"You know she's not your wife, right?"

Wyatt looked up and met Flynn's eyes in the mirror.

"That's the, uh, blonde lady just down the hall…unless history's changed again."

"I'm warning you," Wyatt said, as calmly as he could.

"What is it you want from her, Wyatt? Because if you have a problem, I suggest you talk to Lucy about it. She's perfectly capable of making her own choices, don't you think?"

He walked away and Wyatt fervently wished that looks could kill.

The seventh wound was a gentle bruise – one only she felt when he tried to comfort her with his hands on her shoulders after they came back from 1919.

The eighth was his words: "Lucy – I still care about you. I can't make that disappear."

He caught the ninth before it came out of his mouth – because when she told him that the closest thing to a miracle she had ever seen was his getting Jessica back, he desperately wanted to tell her that the closest thing to a miracle he had ever seen was her pulling him back from the void he had lived in after Jessica was gone.

So he kept it to himself and attempted to patch her wounds, instead.

"You're Lucy Preston," he said seriously. "That's pretty damn good."

He could tell she didn't believe him. And he knew that the fact that she didn't believe him was his fault, too. So he gave up, and thus inflicted the ninth wound, anyway.

He held pretty steady after that, not wishing to damage her one bit more, for a few more missions – that is, until Christopher revealed her suspicions and he slammed Jessica's pregnancy out on the table like the unbeatable card he thought it to be.

He didn't need to look at Lucy's face to see that tenth wound. He walked away and felt it burning a hole in his own back.

Wyatt lost track after that. He lashed out at everyone, especially Lucy, and took a masochistic pleasure in making sure everyone knew how hurt he was by their wariness.

The odd thing was that the more he pushed Lucy away, the softer her eyes became.

It hadn't happened in so long that it took him completely off-guard when it did: Lucy physically turned him from his angry, surly warpath, wrapped her arms around him so that she was hugging his neck, and held him there.

Instinctively, he put his arms around her waist, and he felt like he was falling off of a cliff into a heaving sea. She held him up and he tucked his chin into her shoulder.

Then she left and he stood there, confused and breathless and shaken.

He tried to ground himself by laying his head on his wife's abdomen.

He tried to ignore his growing sense of panic when he woke and found Jessica – and his gun – gone.

And when he felt his elbow connect with Lucy's mouth – saw her face crumple, heard her cry "No, _no_ ," at him in the same frightened voice his mother had used when trying to fend off his father – was the moment he knew he would never be worthy of looking her in the eyes again.

He didn't look at her when he apologized. And even though she forgave him, he still kept his distance, avoided her gaze unless it was absolutely necessary, believing himself to be radioactive. She handed him some books to use in the search for Jiya and he left quickly, not wanting to scare her.

Because he _had_ scared her. He had physically struck her. He was no better than his dad.

After the blur that was Chinatown – after the horrific, half-formed sentence that was Rufus's last _'I lo –'_ to Jiya – after he held his brother as he died – Wyatt was numb.

They only made it out without being arrested because his training kicked in.

He despised himself as he pulled Jiya to her feet, dragging her as gently as he could to the Lifeboat as tears cascaded down both their faces. Jiya cursed him, sobbing, pounding her fists against his chest, and he took it willingly because the blows helped to beat some feeling back into him.

Flynn appeared just as Wyatt had helped the now-catatonic Jiya into Rufus's seat. A brief, insane flash of rage took hold of him when he saw Lucy's broken face, and instinct screamed at him to get Flynn away from her before he could continue hurting her.

But then he noticed that Lucy's face was buried in Flynn's chest and she was clinging to him so tightly that her knuckles were the same color as the white of his shirt, and he remembered that he, Wyatt – not Flynn – was the bad guy now.

So he just watched as Flynn buckled her in; just watched as Flynn put a gentle palm to her face and left a handkerchief there for her to press against her split lip. He watched, immobile, as Flynn hit the button to close the door and sat down himself to buckle in.

They all sat in terrible silence as Jiya robotically started the liftoff procedure.

When Wyatt found Lucy sitting in that same terrible silence in the bunker hallway, he couldn't help himself. He sat down, being very careful not to touch her or even get too near her. He felt like a sinner confessing to a priest, and when Lucy spoke, her bruises gave her a slight lisp that finally broke him.

So he admitted the _thing_ he had known for far too long, the _thing_ that happened to him the very first time he had laid eyes on her but had not wanted to acknowledge, the _thing_ that had stained and hurt and probably ruined her, and he dared not meet her eyes, so he shrugged brokenly, instead.

"You don't have to say it back. You don't have to say anything. I just should've said it a long time ago and I didn't, so I'm sayin' it now."

 _Because Rufus tried to say it to Jiya before he bled out and he couldn't._

 _Because Rufus wanted him to admit it._

 _Because Rufus was right. It was about damn time._

* * *

In the very early morning after his and Lucy's future selves made their dramatic appearance, when everyone else was in bed, he found himself sitting on the sofa his dead-but-maybe-hopefully-not friend had slept on so that he could have some privacy with his traitorous spy of a dead-but-not-really, soon-to-be-ex-wife and possible mother to his hypothetical child.

God, his life was fucked up.

He was so numb and distracted that he didn't even notice Lucy approaching. He only became aware of her when she was already sitting beside him. He could peripherally tell it was her, but he continued to avoid meeting her eyes, ashamed.

"Ready to hand off the watch, soldier?" she asked briskly, and the difference in her voice made him snap his head 'round to stare at her.

Future Lucy sat there, looking calmly back at him. She was wrapped in a blanket from his bed, but it was ratty and worn, and he realized it must be the future version of his same one.

He blinked a few times and she smiled in a small way.

"I didn't steal it off your bed," she said. "You gave it to me. Or, you will give it to me. Later."

Wyatt frowned but nodded hesitantly. She didn't say anything else and neither did he, so he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. He felt like he had no energy left to summon or create words.

"Oh, Wyatt," sighed Future Lucy, and he looked back up to see that her eyes were filled with tears.

He began to reach out toward her but stopped, not knowing what to do. Should he touch her, or would that be a betrayal of his Lucy? But - she _was_ his Lucy, right? Just a later version? Did this Lucy even _want_ him to touch her? Were they even together in that way? He sure didn't think his Lucy would ever allow him anything so absurdly generous ever again -

This Lucy cut off his rambling thoughts by placing her hands on his face and bringing his head to her breastbone. She placed his ear carefully over her heartbeat and wrapped her arms around him, holding him gently and securely against the steady _thump-thump_ in her chest.

A painful, guilty sob escaped his throat and he curled his arms around her waist. She felt like the last solid, real thing in the universe.

" _Shh_ , sweetheart," she soothed him, running a hand through his hair, and he began to cry like a child.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he was aware of, his head was in her lap and they were both covered by the blanket. He didn't stir, because she was speaking quietly - so quietly he could barely hear her - over him.

"You're going to be alright," she murmured. "We both are. She still loves you. I know she does, because I always did. I always will. She might still be hurt and angry, but she's already decided to wait for you. Because you're worth it, sweetheart. I've never met anyone who is so thoroughly deluded as you that they are worthless. You are not your father. You are not the sum of your mistakes. You are mine and I love you."

She raised the volume of her voice just a bit when she spoke the last sentence over him and he knew she knew he was awake. He opened his eyes and stared up at her.

"I don't deserve another chance, Luce," he said hoarsely. One side of her mouth curved upward.

"Don't shoot the messenger," she said simply.

He swallowed and sat up beside her. He could see the gray light of dawn filling the small bunker windows.

"Does he - I mean, your me - know you're here?" he asked.

A real smile covered her face now.

"Why do you think I came?" she replied. "He told me about this. You'll tell your me about this, later."

He blinked a bit stupidly.

"We need nicknames," he joked feebly. "Like -"

"Wyatt Prime and Lucy Prime?" she interrupted sardonically. "Yeah, it wasn't that clever the first time you suggested it."

"I haven't su -" he began, but then understood. "Oh."

"Yeah," she agreed, and leaned forward to plant a soft, swift kiss on his cheek. He stayed still, the room spinning as she pulled away and stood.

"Keep the blanket," she said. "It's yours, anyway."

He watched dumbly as she walked away.

"Will it, like - explode or something if I put it on my real blanket?" he mused, only half-joking, and she stopped and turned back to look at him.

"I dunno. Try it and find out."

She winked and walked out of sight.

It felt like his guts followed her.


End file.
